This:
by A Sub-Creator
Summary: Yep, that's right. [Hang on when you read, the descriptions & the story are a whirlpool of weirdness & purple prose!]


Far away and a long time ago, "far away and a long time ago" was to be the string-end to lead to the next for this yarn seasons and generations so very far from then. During one of the Eras of Time, rather than one of the 'era's of a pretty and pretty smooth dude who actually pulled off a tie (a reason why he was a pretty and pretty smooth dude), when all of the tumult of Everything screamed still and still was ignored, by certain sorts turning eyes along with shoulders away towards a new perspective shining in a direction known not to maps or compasses or gas station squires and their special and (never 'or') secret maps and compasses, on a world like this, because it is this (if you look to looking at it That Way). In a realm of All where Time was, and, accordingly, used in this moment of it, with those from before and those that would be coming henceforth after those from before and the one now.

If Consensus commands semantics, which, thru this means of projection, translates easily and heavily to 'specifics' (should anynoun want to busy themselves with such semantics), it was used on this Sunday-Life to give some of its own to the weekly meet-end of the Pallette Pimps, a furtive farago (Two, not mainly, but meaning, in most cases ((one of which is this _(((an oversight the Pun Nuns are committed to looking over in looking past)))_)) that there be nuances, for Two is, in one ((damn)) way, more than One, which is sameness unto its lonesome self) of Blue Meanie... -Wellies. Said in the prerogative of opinion (tho with a conviction), for actions both inspired by &amp; from their minds don't seem to sidle up with most viewpoints of 'supremalicists'; they simply thought the thought of thinking themselves to be Princes of Paint - and for reasons as different as they, despite the train of thoughts' shared destination.

As the Subtext-Taxer would have needled and pulled from the Stitched from the Tapestry of Tamama, he did not wish to wash away the rest of the rainbow (Skittles would be plain _sick_ then); how his color compared to the rest of All Creshadeation was just so simply superior! (Alternatively, 'abusee blue' is scarily slimming.)

And as Dororo the Forgotten (assuming he'd even be served such a or any sobriquet had anyone or two or five wrangled the retention to know they were the ones to have first forgotten before their brains even blossomed) would have told all or any, he was simply partial to the wonder of what we call a 'color' that can be distinguished if not for our amazement than for our joy as 'blue'. Yes, partial to who-but-blue, partially because he was partially blue.

But they told the other none of this and more, as Time was not on their side, on either of their sides, for it was between them, Formality fueling the forge of Kinship. And Kinship not even on the throne of Kingship, except in the regal script circling the dollops of dossiers, now moulded into Moxa for their fun.

Steven certainly couldn't cut into their Fun, just as he couldn't their paper cache of Mâché, no matter how much he wanted to - and he did, almost as much as he wanted a Will so as to want to, or even carve himself a crumb of that sentience.

But the the tavern's tillers and townies had one of their own, one forged in the Ire Fires into one gathering metaphysical spastic pyroclastic storm. And they could approve, with Logic's love, of themselves disapproving of this spectacular spectacle of two indecisive Kermit and Grover skin-changers singing dinky dances while dancing their silly songs, blushing at aforeintroduced Times when blushing wasn't called for, because partially, it was partially part of both the parts in the whole of logic saying their blushes weren't blue, as well as it not being well that they were being very much animated in a stockade-still backdrop.

So All &amp; Al planned a plan to end each and every, yes, because it would be _all_ their troubles and trials that they would end.

And they did, thru an algorithm so ingenious, it must be have been spawned at one point in tired-of-being-talked-about Time from being in a genius.

And this is how their troubles and trials finally ended:

They didn't even let them have a start.

And thus it was and is that Tavern-town's population popped with merriness, as Do Quixororo verbed too by cultivating the undrawn floor so as to raise a beanstalk to teleport to the top past where it stretched to buy some beans to bring below to trade for a cow to set free so 'free' would be cuddling with his brewed-for-two 'tea' so there is some moderate meter for me. Such a gentle hippy.

But this was to be a meet-_end_; Providence isn't stacked only in an Orson Scott Card deck, and It prodded this scene, maybe to pester, maybe to protect, but, like a cattle prod, leaving everything under no control of its own after It was done.

Tamama tucked in a breath for the Pekopon-packet giving a Life to his cupped essence, when, in his hastened slowness, he rammed the rim, as his wind rammed what was now pouring thru him, what was now him.

A nostril nuance of a wind.

However microscopically, this new Life was greener now.

However much submerged in subtlety, Good Nature thru Amusement stuck Its waving hand out thru a pair of bashfully blanketed lips.

Fissures - honest to Truth fissures - made a much subdivided tho wholly frightening and frighteningly easy jigsaw out of the never-Private wave-maker.

His tea wasn't the only one steaming now.

Merriment was being strapped to rail; Red and Orange mocked the quarter-halfling's blueblood from every one of his possible peripheries, dancing their own stupid song towards the rafters, lecherous licks just missing the skin of Past Life

But as the mood plummeted he stood still in his Space, the faintest movements not giving him one of Its selves as a threnody slithered like a Bad Thing from and off his tongue

The colon cues your knowing:

_You have awoken the Predator beneath his cloak,_

_Tooting tact away because _you_ stink,_

_Carving hatred into this world of cucarachas and coke,_

_Partly in part because your cap's too tight to think._

_A 'mama' am I, but not one to you;  
_

_Super _Ta_Mama(maybe 'mio') Bothered is not my game but now my aim;_

_I will fire fire into everything you love and everything which Love to you giveth -_

_your frivoloties of forests and flowers and green hibiscus. _

_I am _fire_... I am... fired up!_

They were stars to them as the tenderness of a gentle hippy united him with the rivers themselves, thru body and soul, particularly thru closed but seeping windows, as All flooded to the top of Itself in the tears.

"You... you..." Stuttering did not stutter thru Supposed Stealth.

A light peeked from the Everything of the never-Private-then-and-not-now Conflict.

But another light flew first

"You _do_ pay attention!"

The dysfunctional dance sings with Everything to Everything


End file.
